


Push Me

by VergofTowels



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Kink, M/M, Plotty, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:12:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VergofTowels/pseuds/VergofTowels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today is going to be the day.  Today you are going to confess to John Egbert, your friendleader and best bro in the universe.  Everything is going to be perfect.  It has to be, because there is the very real chance that he will turn you down.  </p><p>I'm sorry.  This was intended to be a kink fic with plot and ended up as a plot fic with minimal kink.  Warning for watersports.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Push Me

**Author's Note:**

> ;___; I don't know what to do with this anymore, so I'm going to stop poking it and leave it here.
> 
> EDIT: Now with (crappy) podfic by me! It's buzzy and has some background noise that I couldn't get rid of, but I made it for me, so I didn't bother rerecording it. If anyone wants it anyway, the link is here: http://www.mediafire.com/download.php?9ua38crxdklq191
> 
> ...Also, I can't rap, so don't judge me. :'D

Today is going to be the day. Today you are going to confess to John Egbert, your friendleader and best bro in the universe. Everything is going to be perfect. It has to be, because there is the very real chance that he will turn you down. If you were smarter, you’d just keep holding on to your torch in secrecy; it’s been burning for years already and a few more wouldn’t hurt. Unfortunately, you’ve never been too bright about these things.

It’s a beautiful day for possibly the worst mistake of your life. The sky is a wide, deep blue, the clouds are fluffy and white and resting on the horizon. It’s sunny. It’s not exactly _warm,_ but you’re in Washington on a fall day, so you can’t say you were expecting much. You guess it’s okay even though your nose is cold. John looks great in that jacket.

“Are you coming or not, dork?” he calls to you, and you start a little bit. You haven’t been caught staring yet, something you attribute to your shades (yes, you’re still wearing them at 20 years old, shut up), but you don’t want the first time to be today. You hurry your steps a little and join John at the park gate, leaves crunching under your sneakers. His hair’s getting a bit long and it’s stirring in the light breeze. He also needs to shave. You want to reach out and hold his hand, but instead you just bump his shoulder with yours.

“Lead the way, then. This is your wilderness, not mine.”

He rolls his eyes behind thick lenses. “It’s hardly wilderness. You obviously need to spend less time in your apartment. The internet isn’t healthy!”

“Pot, fucking kettle,” you say, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Just don’t come running to me when we run into Smokey the Bear out here.” He laughs and you fall into an easy silence as you walk down the wide cobblestone trail among the red and yellow trees. You’re the one who wanted to take him out, but he’s the one who knows the area, so he leads the way. It’s nice just to be near him again. Over the summer, you’d tried to move closer, but that had fallen through. You’d gotten a shitty job, Bro had needed help with such and such… You don’t go to the same school, either, and it’s hard.

“Here’s that stand I was telling you about,” he says, perking up and pointing. The park is pretty big and a real happening place for tourists and locals alike, or so you had learned from John’s dad over breakfast. There are a lot of wheeled kiosks and buskers around despite the chill. The little shop up ahead apparently sells fair food: hot dogs, funnel cake, milkshakes… the staples. You can’t remember a time when you didn’t want something deliciously fried, so you join John in line. You buy one funnel cake to share, smothering it in powdered sugar, and each get a soda about the size of your head. It’s cheap, and it smells good, and you can feel the corners of your mouth twitching up in a way that is most certainly not ironic.

You two take a seat at a picnic table a couple of yards from the stand and hunch over your food like hyenas over a kill. John gets the first chunk, since he didn’t bother wearing gloves today and you have to strip yours off. Bad enough that you’re going to have sugar all down your front; you don’t need it on everything you touch, too. 

“Mmm, I love fried dough,” he mumbles through an ambitious bite. “So much better than cake.”

“No kidding,” you agree, ripping off a generous piece. The taste reminds you of when you were younger and Bro used to take you to shitty roadside carnivals when they were in town. You always got sunburned, but those were good fucking times. You lick your fingers.

John takes a sip of his soda and makes a face before pushing it away. “Gross! The machine must be broken…”

You grab his cup and take your own sip. Yep. Whatever it is, it’s not root beer. “They should put a sign on it or something. Warning: this tap equals unholy mix of A&W and tears. Drink only if you have a masochistic desire for regrets.”

“You’re so weird.” He reaches for your cup of orange soda, but you grab it before he can reach it. “Daaaave, come _on.”_

“Nope. I’m afraid this heavenly brew is for cool people only. You’re majoring in Biology, so I’m afraid you don’t count. Sucks.” You take a long pull from your bendy straw. “Ah. How sweet is the nectar on my coolkid tongue. So fucking sweet.”

“You ass.” John rips off more of the fried dough. “Biology is so cool. Cooler than Art, anyway. Bluh!” His fake-pout is endearing, especially with sugar on his lips. You smile.

“Art _and_ Photography.” You claim the last bit, mopping the cardboard plate before stuffing it into your face. “Doubly better.”

“That just makes you a hipster,” he whines, bracing himself for another sip of his disgusting root beer. Once he’s done, he shudders and dumps it into the trashcan beside the table. You toss the plate in after it but hold on to your drink when you both get up. You get thirsty when you’re nervous.

\---

You walk for about an hour into the park, following John as he leads you from trail to trail on a whim. He tells you about his school and his classes and his job shelving books and doing inventory at the school library. He really seems to like it and you’re glad. The most you can say for your own university is that your studio professor doesn’t care too much if your portfolio consists of dead things: a still life, versions 1-30 when she has 45 students to teach. It’s not that you hate it, it’s just not what you grew up thinking higher education would be. Still, you keep on with it even though you know you’re good enough to get a job now because of your brother. He dropped out of high school for you and he should be working at NASA. You can’t just let his investment rot.

You take another sip of your soda, down to the icy dregs now. You don’t like thinking about the future when it’s so uncertain. Ahead of you, John reaches up to a jungle gym and lifts his long legs to swing from bar to bar.

“You’re such a dork,” you say, ditching your cup as you walk up beside him. You want to grab his knee and yank him down and kiss him, but you don’t. “This stuff is meant for middle schoolers.”

“Oh my God… Dave!” He rolls his eyes as he drops down from the other end. “When did you become such a party pooper? Is your old age catching up to you?”

“You probably couldn’t see the whole damn thing wobbling like there was an earthquake. San Francisco, we have a problem. The big one’s finally here. OH SHIT. It’s a 9.5. Everyone had better run for it.” 

“And you say _I’m_ the dork.” He does leave off the playground equipment though and comes over to you, grin shrinking a bit. “You’ve actually been pretty quiet today. You okay? If you’re cold, we can head back.”

“I’ve just been meaning to tell you something,” you mumble before you can stop yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets. You don’t meet his eyes because you’re not sure you can go through with it if you can see him reacting in real time. Maybe you should just have done this over Pesterchum.

Maybe you should have looked up, because all he does is lean forward a bit and say “Sorry? I missed that. You’re relapsing into your old bad habits, dude.”

You feel whatever nerve you’d managed to muster quail and you shrug. “I said yeah, let’s go. My nose is going to freeze off and then some policeman will think there’s a fucked up serial killer out here hacking off body parts.”

“Ew, Dave!” He shoves your shoulder and you smile a tad wanly.

“Of course, it couldn’t possibly be a true serial killer, because what maniac wouldn’t want to take my nose home and keep it in a mason jar? Have you seen this fine piece of face?”

“Far too often for my liking,” he replies smugly, kicking some leaves at you. “Come on, my dad will make us hot chocolate when we get back. And you can eat some of the carrot cake he made so he stops giving me dirty looks whenever I walk through the kitchen.”

“That sounds like a plan.” 

\---

The way back is less eventful than your foray into the park. John stops at every corner to make sure you’re going the right way, turned around a bit from his earlier exploratory impulses, and you don’t talk as much. It’s a companionable silence, but you feel uncomfortable, replaying your slip up in your head. Are you going to get another chance? You don’t want to tell him at the house. You know his dad means well, but he’s always just a room away from you and you don’t need him witnessing your rejection.

It’s starting to actually get cold out as the day wears on and you catch yourself shivering more than once, wishing you’d brought a scarf with you. The number of other people in the park has dwindled with the temperature and catching sight of anyone else has become a rare occurrence. John doesn’t seem as affected by the chill, but he speeds up a bit, probably since he remembers how thin your Texas blood is. You’re silently grateful, since warming up isn’t really the only thing you need to attend to. Suffice to say, you should probably have let John share your orange soda.

You shift a little bit as he stops by another sign. You know you must be close to the park’s entrance by now since you’ve been walking for quite some time, but you don’t recognize the pavilion up ahead and John’s squinting suspiciously through the trees. This is fantastic.

“Don’t tell me you got us lost, wonder derp.” You fold your arms across your chest. 

He huffs at you. “Number one, don’t call me a derp, number two, of course not! This park isn’t that big, Dave. We just have to, maybe, circle back toward that fork we took a few minutes back… Yeah.” He nods to himself, charming buck teeth gracing his lower lip in mild consternation. 

“That sounds like we’re lost.” You shift again, body protesting a bit at the thought of any extra walking.

“No, come on.” He turns around and heads back the way you came, a bounce in his step. You sigh and trudge after. 

“Do you have GPS on your phone?” you ask when you’ve set off down the other path, trying to suppress another shiver as you lose the waning sunlight under the trees. You would have looked on yours already, but it’s charging in John’s bedroom. You’d done nothing but talk to him on Pesterchum after Bro had left you at the train station in Albuquerque and it had died shortly after he’d swung his arms around you in Seattle’s main station.

“Oh! Yes. I forgot about that!” He fishes in his jacket pocket for it, cheerful. Then he fishes in his other jacket pocket. Then his jeans. You stare at him.

“John.”

“Hold on.” He reaches into his jacket again, then unzips it and checks the inside pocket.

 _“John.”_ You’re suddenly struck with the memory of him setting his phone down on the kitchen table while he went to find you a pair of gloves. You sigh. “You left it-”

“I left it on the kitchen table...” He frowns. “Whoops.”

And you want to be mad at him, because you’re cold and it’s getting dark and you have to piss, but the only feeling that lodges in your chest is the same fondness that’s cursed you since you were sixteen years old. You really need to tell him. You can’t be just friends with him any longer. 

“John-”

“Oh my God, Dave, I _know,_ okay? I’m the world’s biggest derp! Why don’t you make a rap about it already? At least then I can tune you out and focus on getting us out of here.” He’s scowling at you now and _whoa._ It’s pretty clear that the whole “lost” thing has been weighing on him more than you thought it was. You almost want to leave well enough alone, but you can’t help but bristle.

“What do you mean tune me out?”

He rolls his baby blues heavenward. “You can’t rap, Dave. You really suck at it.” He has an air of “there, I finally said it” about him, like he’s been suffering – _suffering_ – under the rhythm of your sick beats for years.

“Bullshit.” Your eyes narrow behind the glasses he gave you. “Just ‘cause you don’t give a shit ‘bout the art I’m perfectin’ doesn’t mean I give a shit ‘bout the thoughts you’re projectin’ onto me, I’m reflectin’ that I-”

“Dave, shut the fuck up.” 

He’s glaring at you, breath steaming, and there’s a little voice telling you to turn around and walk it off and wait until you’ve both calmed down and John’s done flipping his dumb shit to do something about this, but you’ve never been very good at listening to reason. Besides, this idiot has no idea how you feel about him and it’s stressing you out. You forgo another rhyme, simply striding up to him and shoving him in the shoulder. He doesn’t move very far, but it gives him a shock and you take the opportunity to go for his ankles.

It only takes a few moments before you’re scuffling in the grass, trying to get a lock around his neck so you can keep his fucking hammer arms away from yours. He’s taller than you and that counts for more when you don’t have a sword and can’t use your agility to your advantage. You taste leaves more than once as he grapples with you.

It’s kind of fun. Maybe Rose would bring up psychologists at that, cite your untraditional, strife-plagued childhood as the root of your masochistic fantasies, but you don’t give a fuck. You like to play rough and this is normal and it’s fun. You relax a bit, start to enjoy your punches and the strain of your back as you try another hold, but John’s still legitimately pissed. You realize why this is a bad thing when he elbows you in the gut and you suddenly have to slam your knees together like a kindergartener afraid of having an accident. _Fuck._

You need to get him off you, but you’re really distracted now, abdomen tight with pressure and the ache of a forming bruise. You headbutt him and manage to roll on top, but he’s still got a death grip on your arms. You can’t squirm away as you so desperately desire, your plan to push off of him with a solid kick sidetracked by a badly-timed shudder, leaving you weak. You _almost_ whimper when he wrests control away again and slams you back down, but you’re not so far gone that you’ll give up your pride.

You’re still pretty far fucking gone, though, and you have to bite your lip when John sits on you to pin you. He looks really nice all flushed with exertion, especially next to your weird blotchy complexion, and that is _so_ not helping. At least your distress is keeping you from popping an awkward-ass boner, though with the way his eyes are focused only on you, it may just be a matter of time.

“You’re a dick,” he says, tightening his hands around your wrists.

“I know.” You try to scoot your legs together, just a bit more, but he’s not letting you move at _all,_ fucking _great._ You tremble. You _really_ have to piss. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Why did you push me?” He shifts his weight and it hits you hard. You taste iron as your tooth slices into your tongue.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” Now, not so much. You should have just traded shitty insults for a bit. You’d probably be out of the park and on your way back to Egbert’s perfect, cookie cutter house. “Get off.”

“Mm. I don’t think so. Not until you apologize.”

You give up on trying to get your hands free and stare at him. “For _what?_ You’re the one who was being a little bitch. _And_ you got us lost. Get _off.”_

He shakes his head and sits back and you go rigid as you feel the first spurt dampen your boxers. “I’m waiting, Dave!”

You glare up at him, body taut. He can’t be fucking serious… Then you catch sight of the twinkle of mischief lighting his eyes. Oh fuck, you hate it when he gets like this… Better to just play along and get him _off_ you.

“I’m sorry. Happy? _Move.”_ Another spurt escapes you and you can feel heat crawling shamefully up your neck. 

“That didn’t sound very sincere!” The hint of a smile is returning to his face and you’d be ecstatic about that – really you would – but he leans closer to poke you in the chest and you shake and feel sick to your stomach and can’t hold it any longer.

It takes him a little bit to notice, but when he does, he leaps away from you like he’s been burned, face twisting, arms lifted to ward you off. “Ew, _Dave,_ Jesus, are you _pissing_ yourself? That’s disgusting!”

You want to say “I warned you Bro. I told you dog” but you can’t, rendered mute, face blazing. Instead, you curl onto your side, back to him, and wait it out. You don’t think you ever want to speak again.

\---

The walk back to the house is the worst thing you’ve ever experienced. Neither of you makes a sound as John finally locates the exit and walks out on the street. You trail behind him, so far back you could almost be strangers, and try not to shiver too obviously, teeth chattering, in your clammy jeans. Your only comfort is that they’re black, so at least no one on the street is giving you dirty looks. Neither is John, but you’re pretty sure that’s because he refuses to look at you.

Dadbert picks up on the tension between you as soon as John shoves open the door, but he’s too tactful to say anything about it. He asks about the park and says something about hot chocolate as you slide past him and beat it up the stairs, locking yourself in the bathroom. You can hear the murmur of John answering him, sounding falsely chipper, through the door, and you don’t waste any time drowning out the sound with a short, brutal twist to the shower faucet.

You strip out of your clothes as fast as you can and step under the spray like it can absolve you of your sins, which you now realize are grave and plentiful. Why didn’t you just walk away? You didn’t have to escalate the situation, even if it did unfairly broadside you. Why did you even want to go to the stupid park, anyway? You could have gotten dinner somewhere, caught a movie, gone to the arcade. Why did you spend three days in shitty trains coming up to this God-forsaken state in the first place? There’s no way John ever liked you that way, and, after tonight, he never will.

You stare at the tile for a long time, letting the water beat your forehead, analyzing the ache in your throat and the hitch in your breath. If your eyes prickle, you blame it on your shampoo.

\---

You don’t think you can stomach dinner, so after shoving everything you were wearing into the hamper, you head straight into John’s room. You don’t bother turning on the light as you grab a clean pair of boxers from your bag, yanking them on before flopping face-down on the air mattress provided for your convenience. In the corner, the screen of your phone lights up. You have a text. You just drag your pillow over your head to block it out and lay there until you fall into an uneasy sleep.

When you wake up some time later, it’s still pitch black and you’re cold and disoriented. You shift on the mattress, trying to figure out what woke you. Then you hear John, just outside the door, bidding his father good night. You close your eyes and lie still as he comes in.

You’re expecting it when he switches on his desk lamp so he can change without stepping on a stray game controller, so the sudden light doesn’t take you off guard. You’re not expecting it at all when he tugs your blanket out from under your legs and drapes it over you, warming you up considerably. You channel your not-inconsiderable focus into remaining still while he goes back over to his bed and turns out the light.

You wait a minute in the dark with the blanket pulled up to your chin before he opens his mouth. You just decide to listen.

“Dave, are you awake?” 

You don’t answer, preferring to let your eyes slip shut again.

“There’s some lasagna in the fridge for you if you get hungry later. I told Dad you weren’t feeling well… Luckily I managed to stave off his offer to bring you medicine. That stuff’s nasty.”

Well _he_ seems to be feeling better.

“Are you okay?”

You ignore the question and adjust your pillow instead, hoping he’ll get bored. He does fall silent for a few minutes. You can hear him fidgeting with the bedcovers, though. He takes a breath.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I’ve… had a lot on my mind, with pre-regestration and stuff. I guess I got kind of pissy…”

“Ya think?” You twitch the corner of your pillow aside so you can stare at his form on the bed. Your eyes have readjusted and you can make out where he’s twisting the sheet between his hands. 

“I _said_ I was sorry. You’re the one who pushed me.”

“I ain’t going to let anyone insult my sweet flow, even if it’s you.”

He scoffs. “Oh come off it. Your 'sweet flow' is lame.”

 _“You’re_ lame.”

“Least _I_ didn’t wet myself.”

It’s almost tangible how much John wishes he could take that back, but you’re already so done. You bury your face in your pillow. “Not like I was trying to.”

John lets out a quiet sigh. “No, I know. Sorry. Sorry, Dave.” There’s a shuffle and a creak as he crawls to the end of the bed and you feel his gaze on your back. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you mumble into fabric. You try not to start too badly when John’s hand lands on your shoulder and starts rubbing tentatively. The ache creeps back into your throat. “What do _you_ think?”

“How about we never talk about it ever again?” he offers, and though you would have hoped that would go without saying, you accept it for the conciliatory gesture it is. You nod into your pillow. “Do you want to see a movie tomorrow, or just stay in? I have lots of games…”

“Then expect me to kick your ass at all of them.”

He laughs. “Yeah, sure. We’ll see about that.” The bed creaks again as he sits back and you feel suddenly bereft as his hand leaves your shoulder.

“John?”

“Yeah, Dave?” He covers a yawn. “What is it?”

“I love you.”

You lie still, holding your breath. Well. You said it. _Are you a fucking moron, or what?_ All the morons in history have nothing on you. George W. Bush could ride through here on a retarded liger and place a dunce cap on your head and America would applaud him.

“Oh.”

Welp. “I’ll grab my shit tomorrow and get out of your hair. I’d go tonight, but I kind of have to call Bro and I don’t want to wake him up since he gets super bitchy about his damn 'beauty sleep' and he’d need to know where I was. If it makes you uncomfortable though, I’ll just move my ass downstairs to the couch and get out of your space. That’s cool, I won’t mind, and you can maybe, just, forget about this too. Um. I’ll put some pants on and-”

“Jesus Christ, Dave. You’re mumbling again.” John sounds exasperated, so you shut your trap, miserable. “Stop freaking out before I’ve even said anything, okay? You don’t have to leave. You don’t even have to go downstairs. Anyway, the burglar alarm’s on, so I wouldn’t recommend it. Just sit tight while I think, okay?”

You sigh and pull your pillow over your head again. You think he might have questions, but he doesn’t ask you anything at all, and, by the time your nerves are wearing off, you’re sure he’s fallen asleep.

\---

When you wake up the next day, John’s already out of the room and you can smell pancakes cooking downstairs. Much as you wish you could avoid him and the awkwardness you’re sure will choke you up, your stomach is only too keen to remind you that you skipped dinner the night before. You grudgingly lever yourself up and get dressed, brushing your teeth before you head cautiously downstairs. By the time you’ve reached the kitchen threshold, you’ve almost convinced yourself John will think it was all a bad dream. The unreadable look he throws you over his shoulder as he flips another pancake sinks that theory like the Titanic and you sit down, resigned, at the table.

Before the silence stretches too long, Dadbert comes in from the pantry with a bag of brown sugar in his hands. He smiles when he sees you and you have to smile, too, since he’s wearing a fedora with his apron.

“Good morning, Dave. I hope you’re feeling better today.” He sets the sugar on the counter and pops open the microwave.

“Yes sir, more or less. Thanks.” The sir kind of slips in automatically, even though both John and his dad have told you you don’t have to call him that. You tell them it’s because you were raised in the South and Bro smacked your manners into you from a young age. That, and you’ve never met a person more worthy of respect.

“I’m glad to hear it. I took the liberty of making you oatmeal this morning, just in case. It’s easier on the system than pancakes.” He takes a bowl out of the microwave and transports it and the brown sugar in front of you. You try to look enthused.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Egbert, but I don’t think it’s really necessary…” You poke the oatmeal with a spoon and try not to frown. 

Dadbert shakes his head before going to finish with the pancake batter, allowing John to sit down with a plate piled tall with golden buttermilk creations. “No need to keep up the Strider act here,” he says, winking at you. Argh. “We’ll see how you’re doing after that and maybe we can go out to eat tonight.”

You look to John for help and lower your voice. “What did you tell him was wrong with me, _Ebola?”_ You reach for one of his pancakes.

He slides his plate out of your reach. “Eat your oatmeal, Dave. It’s good for you! I even told him to make you apple cinnamon.”

“Egbert, I’m going to punch you.” You almost do, too, but then he’s taking your hand under the table and starting in on his food. You give him a questioning look, relief and hope warring in your chest, and he gives you a small nod.

You eat your oatmeal.


End file.
